THE THRUSH

The creamy dogwood branches,

The rosy redbud trees,

The drifts of sweet wild-plum bloom

O’ erhung by honey bees,

The gleaming buckeye blossoms

The south wind blew apart,

Oh, all the woods awaking,

They overfilled my heart!

Then clear, from out a thicket,

There rang that golden note

That flutes from none but only

The tawny thrush’ s throat;

So charged with all sweet secrets

The April has to tell,

I bowed my head and harkened,

Enchanted by its spell.

Till presently that magic

Heart-melting melody

Drew all my soul to meet it

In sudden ecstasy.

My spirit found its pinions

In blessed bird-like birth,

And knew the joyous passion

That thrilled through all the earth.

The while the thrush was singing,

I heard the violets stir,

And through the dreamy woodlands

The breaking buds confer;

I half divined the glories

Of all the springs to be,

— When, O, the song was silent!

The thrush had flown, ah me!